Bird of Ill Omen
by star-eyed cynic
Summary: Medieval AU. Katniss is caught illegally poaching and instead of being executed is brought to a strange and forlorn house. The questions she is asked inside only add to her confusion. "Are you pure Katniss?" "Yes, I am pure." I begin. "I was baptized in the Holy Church and partake–" "He means are you a virgin." Snow says.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Several weeks ago I woke up in a cold sweat with this story just begging to be written. In one night I wrote 10,000 words. It was insane. I would have never done it if I had never read When the Moon Fell in Love with the Sun by Mejhiren. Because of her story I saw the light when it came to Everlark and because of this my story is dedicated to her.**

 **This story is rated M for graphic hunting scenes and Medieval medicine and if this is not for you I would not recommend reading it.**

Bird of Ill Omen

Chapter 1

Once the Hunter Now the Prey

Mist rises up in the forest around me, making the world move at a surreal pace. Morning's first light cuts through the shadow, and I exhale a single breath and release the arrow. It flies swift and true, hitting my target. The animal screams and I curse in a hushed voice. My shot did not kill the animal and now it is suffering.

I step out of my concealed location and move to go assess the the damage I have done. Thirty paces from where I stand a rabbit is down. Its Belly split open and its intestines scattered. It won't survive, but it is not dead yet. Blood foams at its mouth and frantic rasping screams escape it.

No creature great or small ever deserves to suffer like this and I am already starting to bear the guilt of this kill. Hadn't my father always told me that it was a hunter's duty to kill, but not torment?

I draw out my knife and walk in its direction. As I approach the rabbit sees me with its haze filled eyes. It starts bucking and writhing making one last attempt to get away. The efforts are pointless and do nothing, but increase the damage done. When I am within one step of the creature it gives up on its vain efforts to escape. Instead it lets out a series of violent, wheezing coughs as it chokes on its own blood.

"Shh, Shh, little rabbit." I say as I position my knife over its neck, "Your pain is almost over."

I bring my blade down and sever its spine. Good. The rabbit no longer knows suffering, only darkness.

I look down at the skinny summer rabbit and am disappointed with myself. The kill is good for neither hide nor flesh and what little of it that could be eaten has been contaminated by the contents of its split intestines.

"Perhaps Prim and I could use some of the leg meat and add it to a–" I start to think, but then stop myself.

I shouldn't have thought of her.

I shouldn't have thought of my sister Prim. She would have been so disappointed in me. She is like my mother with her healing hands and gentle ways. She would have hated seeing the creature suffer, like she hates seeing any living thing in pain. I can hear her crying and begging me to fix it. Begging me to put the torn pieces of a dead animal back together again. She would have hated seeing it die.

"You would hate seeing her die from hunger more." A voice in my head fights back.

This is true. I hunt to feed my family, like my father did before me. I cannot afford to be delicate or sentimental. Someone must bear the harshness of this world. And for my family that someone is me.

Hunting is strictly forbidden in these woods and I risk my life every time I come out. I can't risk being caught over something as silly as being sloppy with a failed kill. My first priority now is cleaning my wasted arrow. Then I have to conceal my rabbits remains. The main part of the carcass I move into the under brush then I take a handful of leaves and cover it. I take more leaves and top off the blood smear on the ground. I work until I am satisfied that no one will ever know I have been here.

The forest is still again. Too still. Some part of my hunting instinct tells me I have made a mistake I cannot name. I try to shake it off, hoping that it is only paranoia. To calm my nerves, I reenact simple hunting tasks. The first I ever learned. I check the direction of the wind. Then I scan the ground looking for animal tracks or scat. I listen. Opening my ears up to every sound, the calls of birds, the rustle of the wind, the drip of running water. I listen until all I can hear is the forest and my heartbeat.

I am ready now. My fears were irrational and I must get moving, animals can smell a kill from miles away I need get to another part of the woods.

It has been an hour since dawn broke and if I do not want to be out all day I need to hurry. There is a stream two miles from here. I start to run. I need to put as much distance between me and the smell of blood as possible. When I am over halfway there I slow down and resume my normal stalking pace. I need to be silent now if I want a kill. It is like my father use to say, "If you want to bring home a kill Katniss, you need to be as quiet as death." That is how he saw himself when he was in the woods, he saw himself as the very persona of death.

I don't see myself that way. I always try to think of myself as a tree, or rock, or a river. Something that was innately part of the woods. Giving and taking. A fragment of the circle of things. Something that belongs here. However, I don't think my father was wrong I am sure to all the animals when they see me they see nothing more than an arrow in the heart, or a slit throat.

The soft bubbling of the stream grows louder. A bird drops from a tree out of no where and I stifle a scream. It came so close to my face I could feel the brush of the tail feathers. A startled 'Craw!' escapes the creature. It is all black. What my father would call 'a bird of ill omen'. A sign of terrible things to come.

I shake my head. Silly man, believing in signs. There were no omens the night our house caught fire and he died inside, blinded by the smoke and flames. In fact, it was sunny the day before and all the birds were singing. And the night was remarkable cool and mild, before my family's screaming broke the silence.

My ear catches the sound of movement and I go still. I scan the shadows of the underbrush. The movement is coming from a thicket twenty yards from me. I must step away from my hiding place if I want a clear shot. I will myself to be as still as possible. With nothing to hide my form I must be a part of the woods now more than ever. The rustling increases and then I see it.

It is a stag, the biggest I have ever seen. I have a clear shot. I notch my arrow and take aim for the area right under his shoulder blade. I exhale slowly and start to release, knowing that that best shots should be a surprise even to you. This will be a perfect kill.

The call of a horn breaks the silence and I panic. The arrow flies too soon and loges itself in a tree by the deer. The beast rears backwards and retreats into the underbrush as I whip around to see where the sound is coming from and if I have time to get away.

"What Ho!" A man's voice calls. He has seen me. I am as good as dead. "And what little peasant do we have here stalking the same stag?" He calls again.

I can see him now on his gray horse. From his golden fur coat and green velvet clothes I can tell he is wealthy beyond imagining. In another life, in another world I would spit on him for looking so jolly with his red cheeks tucked under his golden beard. Does he not know he could have me killed for this? Then I see the golden chain around his neck. Not only is he wealthy he must be nobility. He could kill me on sight and never answer for it. Worse things have happened to little serfs at the hands of royals.

Another voice joins his. "What do you mean–"

The second rider sets eyes on me and pulls his horse to a sudden stop causing his horse to whiny in shock. Rage fills the new man's face. There is red behind his eyes that match the bright scarlet hat on his head. "That is not a little peasant. It is a wench." He spits in disgust.

"A what?" The golden man says and he looks me over again. I feel the need to hide my bow in a last attempt to appear innocent, but I know it is impossible. The man continues, "Indeed it is wench." This time he does not sound jolly, something about me being a woman seems to sober him.

"I could have your head for this." The second rider says, "In fact I should have your head for this! Stefan! Stefan!" The man begins to call over his shoulder.

I feel my knees go week. I must harden myself and prepare to say nothing in hope that they do not discover my relation to Prim and my mother. They will suffer enough without the meat I bring home. They do not need to bear persecution for having a poacher for a relative.

The golden man lifts up a hand to silence the one still calling for Stefan. "No, Cardinal Snow." He says in a distant voice, "Take her back to your house. I wish to speak to her."

"Say what you want to her now. She then can be executed here. We have caught her red-handed." Cardinal Snow says and then gives my bow a pointed glance.

My knees start knocking against my will.

"No." The golden man interrupts again, "I want her brought to your home. There is a task I wish for her to perform."

"Brought to my home?" Snow says as he bobbles his head like a shocked chicken. "You can ask some other menial to do your biding. I cannot allow an act of willful insubordination and theft to happen on my land and then invite the culprit into my home."

"You forget Cardinal that both your home and your land were gifted to you by me."

Cardinal Snow gives a twisting smile and replies, "They were not a gift to me. They were a gift to his Holiness and to the Holy Church. I am but a humble servant there."

"Than act like a humble servant and take her to your home. The king of this land wishes to speak to her."

A third rider joins them and I can only assume that it is Stefan.

Cardinal Snow points a single finger of his withered, translucent hand at me and says, "Stefan disarm her and take her back to my home. Detain her until we return."

The man dismounts his black horse and I can see he is twice my size. When he approaches me I willingly hand over my bow. My dead father's last gift to me. Then with callous hands Stefan deftly takes it and cracks it over his knee and tosses it to the side.

I want to scream and claw his eyes out. How could he? The sane part of my brain reminds me that I cannot win here. I try to remain calm as my shaking hands pass him my quiver and arrows for him to break and toss aside as well.

I feel as if my own heart is being peppered by arrows as he cracks them one by one. They were all I had. They were all that kept me alive.

He tells me to follow him and I do. Then with a great heave he lifts me onto his horse and climbs on behind me.

A terrible thought crosses my mind as we start to ride. The hunting part of me has been broken and tossed aside on the forest floor. I am no longer a tree, or a hunter, or death. I am now the prey.

 **Please Review. Your thoughts and opinions mean so much to me I would love to hear them.**

 **Also I feel like I am writing this story so fast I may need a second opinion soon and if anyone is willing to Beta for me please PM me.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Ask and you shall receive (if you are lucky and I have something I can actually sign my name to with pride). Here is the second chapter. Side note I am still in need of a Beta and if anyone feels up to it please message me.**

 **Bird of Ill Omen**

 **Chapter 2**

 **A Lamb Before the Slaughter**

The horse rides on through the woods and for a moment I consider what a strange sensation it is to be riding on top of a beast. I have never done it before. I have hardly ever seen it done.

"Whose woods are these?" I wonder. "How have I never thought of it before?" Maybe it never mattered to me if I was caught and hung for poaching the king's deer, or hung for poaching a cardinal's deer.

I wish in some ways they would have killed me then I was ready to go without saying anything in that moment. Now we are going to talk. I have already made up my mind not to reveal I have a family. It will only complicate things further.

"What could they wish to speak to me about?" I have heard stories about other countries in Christendom where they make endless inquiries about people until they locate all the heretics living in a community. All the reports end with the heretics being killed. I have never paid much attentions to these stories for I always felt more inclined to focus on where my next meal was coming from than church teaching.

"I am a good Christian." I remind myself, but I know that is being generous to say the least. I attend mass once on Sunday with the rest of the people. But the truly devout go everyday before sunrise. A good Christian family would give one of their children to the church, especially when they became destitute without a father. However, I could not leave because no one else would provide food and I could not send Prim because it would break my heart to send her away to a nunnery. I begin to worry when I realize I cannot even remember the last time I have been to confession.

We approach the home. It is a low flat building made of stone and I cannot imagine how they support a roof of that size when the one over my tiny home is always near to collapsing. After we dismount the horse I feel as I am moving within a dream as I pass by all the unfamiliar faces. I have no sense of belonging here; as odd as a fish that flies through the air.

Stefan guides me down dark hallways with more twist and turns than I feel like I have taken in my whole life. When we reach the final spot he opens a narrow door with a key from around his belt and speaks for the first time.

"Wait here."

Two words that is all the instruction I am given. The room inside is small with a wicker chair that has its back punched out, a broom, and a bucket covered with cloth. I turn to ask him something, but he is already shutting the door and I hear it lock behind me.

Regrets fill my mind. The first ones are why did I not eat this morning or drink more water. I feel like I am suddenly dying of thirst. More remorse follows. I berate myself for taking that path in the woods, for not quitting after I killed the rabbit, for allowing that man to break my father's bow. One scene after another I replay all the events that led me here to this little dark room as I consider all the things I could have done differently, but did not.

In an effort to distract myself from my remorse I search the room hoping to find food hidden under the bucket with the cloth. I take my time and use both hands to remove the tattered linen, after this discovery there will be no more diversions. Mimicking the motions priests use to reveal a new relic of a saint I take the cloth away and then cautiously move my eyes down as if someone less than worthy will be blinded by the sight.

Luck is for and against me. It is food. In the form of uncooked potatoes which will do me no good. I retreat to a different corner of the room. Time passes and I notice a small window high above me. I cannot see out, but from the light I can tell that it is midday.

They hours drag on one after another and I admit to myself I thought I would be better at this. "How often have I stood in one spot for countless hours when I was waiting for game?" I think to myself.

Waiting without the chance of making a kill or feeling the wind on my face seems pointless.

More time passes and it is dark now. The skin at the back of my throat feels like it is about to split into a thousand pieces. "They have forgotten me in here." I tell myself. "They have forgotten me as they lead their busy, decadent lives."

The hours drag on and a lean against the wall and try and get some rest. It is no good I am too thirsty to sleep. "I wish they would have killed me cleanly in the woods instead of letting me die from thirst."

I wet my mouth with spit as best I can and close my eyes even if I can't sleep. I cannot bare to look at the same pattern of stone any more.

The sound of a key unlocking the door awakens me and I realize I must have dosed off. I am on my feet before the door swings open.

It is Stefan again. "Come with me." He says.

I follow him again the only difference this time is the labyrinth of halls are lit by torches and I am in awe at such extravagance. Two voices fill the hall and by and by I begin to pick up pieces of the conversation.

"It will not do. It will simply not do. This is not the way things are done. There will be no blessing for it!"

I recognize this rasping voice as Cardinal Snow. Another voice follows.

"Blessing? You speak of blessings? There have been no blessings for that boy in over five years only pain and suffering."

"Pain makes the heart and spirit chaste. It does not, however, upset the balance of all society. He should be with a princess as it is his rightful place according to his birth."

"A princess." The second voice repeats and then follows with bitter laughter. "You think we can give him a princess. As if he is normal and whole? As if the father of the bride will not take up arms against me over such an insult. No man wants his daughter married under such circumstances."

"The papacy will not approve of it. His Holiness will not approve of it." Snow tries again in a tense voice.

"The papacy? The Pope?" The man says in mock confusion. "Since when has the Pope concerned himself with the marriage of a king's third son? Besides it will not be a long union there is not much time as it is." The voice breaks in anguish. "His brothers are now both married. When he was young I promised him he may have all they have despite his illness. Despite his injury. How else can I fulfil this promise? How else can I remain true to my word?"

The voices are getting louder as Stefan leads me towards double doors at the end of a massive hall.

"You have no idea the diseases she carries." Snow says. "These people live in drunken debauchery. With no thought–"

Stefan knocks on the door and for a moment there is quiet.

"Come in." A voice calls from the other side. I know the voice it is the golden man who found me earlier in the woods.

Stefan opens the door and gestures for me to go in alone. The first sight I see behind the door is the impossibly large fire that covers half the wall. The flames dancing thick and high. Throughout the room there is a continuous tapestry draped along the wall that in daylight may look like people dancing, but in this moment look like figures writhing in pain. My heart is pounding and I feel like I have just entered the pit of hell.

The door closes behind me and I face the two figures bathed in flame. The whites of their eyes are red from fire light.

"Here she is. We now have the opportunity to ask questions and then determine her character." The golden man says to Cardinal Snow as if I am not here.

Snows eyes roll back to the corner of the room and then hone in on me. "There is no reason to 'determine her character' I already know. She is a vulgar little wench of mean birth. She poaches my deer for unknown reasons. And she is as dark as a Moor and perhaps a druid."

On the word 'druid' he looks at me and then the flame as if I am already fit to burn for heresy. My knees knock together and I scream in my mind, "Why have you taken me here!"

"Can you speak child?" The golden man asks me and for the first time I wonder if he may be just a little concerned for my welfare.

"Yes." I croak. My voice is dry and rattles from lack of water.

He gives a smile as I wet my lips, "Do you have a name?"

"Yes, Katniss." I feel dizzy from thirst. Why is he asking me these things?

"Do you have a family name, Katniss?"

Do not reveal your family, a voice screams in my head.

"No."

"And does you father have a name?"

I wet my lips again preparing to lie. "No, I have been an orphan since birth."

My small answer causes a reaction from both men. Cardinal Snow looks at me and then to the golden man and moves his arms first in my direction and then towards the man. It is as if he is saying, 'Behold, the evidence of her great crime.'

The golden man's reaction is much different. He glances at me and then the cardinal as if being an orphan is somehow a great blessing.

The golden man speaks again. "Are you pure Katniss?"

I buck back in dismay. Is he honestly accusing me of being a druid? "Consider your words carefully." A voice says in my mind. I lick my lips again, and am glad I have had nothing to drink. I fear I would vomit if it was otherwise.

"Yes, I am pure." I begin. "I was baptized in the Holy Church and partake in the Holy Eucharist. Daily I attend confession and weekly I–"

"He means are you a virgin." Snow says in a demeaning voice.

No air seems to enter my lungs no matter how hard I strain. Why are they asking these things of me? All my life I have had the privilege of being ignored by men. I look like a boy in my too large tunic and my face is far from pretty. What do these men want with me?

"See she doesn't answer!" Cardinal Snow screams as he points to me. "Proof of what I have told you. These people sin with impunity and searching for some unattainable 'good' and 'pure' one is like sifting through manure for jewels."

"She has not yet answered because you have not given her a chance. I repeat my question Katniss, are you pure?"

I can barely make myself whisper, but I answer. "Yes I am pure."

The golden man's voice is more gentle this time. He is almost whispering too when he says, "And would you say that it is true that you have no carnal knowledge of a man?"

"Yes, it is true."

"And if I would bring a physician in here to inspect would he also say it is true?" Snow says with a wicked smile twisting his face.

My face burns as blood rushes to my face. How does he expect me to answer under such humiliation?

"Look she even blushes like a maiden." The golden man says pointing to me. "I think we are finished here."

Cardinal Snow starts to protest but is cut off by the man in gold. "I said we are finished here. We have asked our questions and she has answered. Now go I have other services from you I will require tonight."

Snow's eyes open wide and his head jerks back, "My lord I must refuse–"

"You will refuse nothing!" This is the first time I have heard the golden man raise his voice. "Remember Snow it is out of my generosity you live in this fine house. Believe me it is not beyond my power to make other arraignments for you. Now go prepare yourself. I wish to speak to her alone."

Snow releases a sigh of disgust. All his strides towards the door are overdramatic as if each one is a great strain to him. His red silk robes glimmer in the firelight as he slams the door behind him. I am now alone in the room with the golden man and I fear what is expected of me.

"Katniss do you know why you are here?" The man asks in a voice as soft as butterfly wings.

His gentleness relaxes me and for the first time I am able to speak in a voice that does not quiver. "I am here because I was caught hunting on land that was not mine."

The man's head bobs up and down languidly, and his eyes search my face. "Yes, you are here because of that. Tell me Katniss do you know the punishment for such a crime?"

"Yes sire. It is death."

"Yes, death is the penalty for poaching. Katniss do you know who owns these lands? Do you know whose deer you slaughter?"

"No sire. I do not."

"These are my lands and they are my deer Katniss. And because of this, hunting on this land is a crime against me. I get to decide the punishment for such activity and I have decided not to punish you."

"Thank you sire." I say trying to sound as sincere as possible. However, I have already worked out that he did not intend to kill me. He could have done that in the woods if that was all he wanted.

"Would you now say you owe me your life under the circumstances?"

"Yes, I would sire." My mind is racing ahead as I try to understand where this conversation is headed

"I would agree. You do owe me your life. Do you intend to repay me?"

I want to panic and ask what sort of payment he has in mind. Instead I say, "If there are circumstances that would allow it."

He says nothing and his eyes search my face again. Then he turns away and walks to the fire as if mesmerized by the flame. An eternity seems to pass between that moment and when he finally speaks again.

"I have a son, Katniss." He says as he looks into the fire.

I am not sure what to make of this and consider my wording carefully. I decide I am going to say the phrase, 'how fortunate', but he continues speaking without prompting.

"I have a son, Katniss." He repeats, "And he is in much need of love and kindness. He needs a tender touch and a gentle hand." He looks to me and I can see a tear drifting down the side of his face. The tear looks gold in the firelight. A golden tear for a golden man, how fitting. "My son is in need of a wife."

I want to react, but don't. I cannot wrap my mind around the events that are unfolding around me and I feel like I am watching to events happen to someone else.

"I have decided you will become his wife. His helpmeet. A constant friend for him in this cruel world. Be assured this will repay the debt you owe me in full." With each word he says more tears fall from his eyes. His whole face now holds the reflection of the flame as it reflects off the water covering his face.

What could his son have done to make him feel so miserable?

"I will do as you wish sire." There is nothing else I can say. No way for me to deny him what he asks.

He brings up his hand to wipe his face and sniffles as he tries to contain his running nose.

"This entirely human creature is the lord of the land?" I think to myself in confusion. The world seems so backwards today.

The golden man looks at me and then to my ragged clothes. I can feel his mind turning over some question in his head.

"I see the marriage as a matter of urgency and plan to have it performed tonight."

I start to nod my head, but he feels the need to explain further.

"You will be taken from here, washed, and prepared for the wedding. That is all." He looks away from me and to the door.

"Stefan! Stefan!" The golden man calls.

The door swings open and there is the ever faithful servant waiting for his next command.

"Stefan take her to the bath house. The women will know what to do with her."

I look back to the golden man. I feel like I should say something, but when I turn he is looking into the fire again. His whole chest is heaving with silent sobs.

Stefan beckons me to follow.

I think to myself, "Yes here you are again Stefan. Here to lead me around like a lamb before the slaughter. A creature that never fusses at all until it meets the butcher's knife."

 **Please Review. I really need the feed back for once in my life I don't know where my story is going before I write it which is terrifying and thrilling all at the same time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. Life has been a little crazy for me and I am still in desperate need of a beta for this story, but I am soldiering on because (wonderful, wonderful) people still want to keep reading. I am having awful writers block and need someone to talk to about up coming chapters.**

Chapter 3

Corpse's Bride

The bath house is a hot, steaming room teaming with at least ten servant girls. I pay no attention to them though. Instead I am captivated by the huge tub of water in the center of the room. When I lay eyes on it I run from Stefan and plunge my face into it. I am nearly dying of thirst and do not know what else they expect of me.

The water feels like it is nearly boiling, but that does not stop me from taking one long draft after another. I am beginning to feel human again when I feel a hand slap the skin between my neck and shoulders.

"Up! Up! You little savage!" A woman's voice screams.

As I pull my face up from the water I can feel her turn to her friend. She then says, "Honestly, she has no manners. Why is she even here?"

I feel like letting out a hiss like a snake. These people already think I am some kind of wild creature. Why not put on a show? They may even back off from me and leave me in peace if I terrify them enough.

"Come, come, stand up." The woman says as she gestures an up motion as if I am too stupid to walk upright.

As I rise all my hunting instincts tell me to run. They are circling towards me.

"Alright strip down." The woman says.

I want to rip out handfuls off her ever bouncing blonde curls, but instead stand still as a statue.

"Strip down." The woman repeats, this time the fake smile she has been giving me has left her lips. She turns to her friend, "Honestly, we don't have time for this. Octavia strip her down."

An enormously fat woman approaches me and her plump hands grab the edge of my tunic. I could try and fight them, but I don't. There are six of them and one of me there is no point in refusing.

The many hands make short work of my clothes and soon I am standing bare in front of them with one arm covering my chest and my hand covering down below.

"Alright into the tub." The woman says again. I believe her friends call her Effie.

I scurry to edge of the tub like a wild thing. I am anxious to hide my nakedness underneath the water. In a rolling, tumbling motion I climb over the wooden edge and plunge into the water. Immediately I want out. I had not counted on the fact the water would be near boiling. It is too late escape the faceless mob has circled me again and is preparing to start their work.

Octavia scatters pink petals over the water and stirs the water with her hand. The petals wind and curl in the water like a school of fish. She then takes out a small vile and dumps the contents in the water. The oil hits the water and all at once the room smells sweet and heady, like barley brewing for beer. I wonder if it is myrrh.

The soap dish is brought forward and I realize why such care was taken with the water. The dish holds the same gray sludge I make at home. Half animal fat, half ash. At least I will not have to smell the stink this time I remind myself.

A servant lifts my arm from the water and coats my arm with the cold grease. She then takes out a bristle brush and begins to scrub. She does not use soft circle motions. Instead she puts her back into scrubbing one rough line after another. She is going to rub my skin raw and I try to break free of her grasp. At the first signs of my struggle hands descend upon me to keep me still and I give up the fight. They will do what they want with me.

More hot water is added. More flower petals. More precious oils. Every inch of my skin is being scrubbed by one servant or another. My skin is being turned rough and pink and I have resigned myself to waiting for the blood to start prickling through my abused flesh.

"Enough. Enough." Effie calls. "If we keep this up she will be as raw as a steak. There is nothing we can do about her dark complexion. Start with the hair."

Many hands release me at her orders and my tormented skin is given some reprieve. Two hands grab my shoulders and gently push me down in the water. A pitcher is filled and poured over the crown of my head. I let myself relax and settle into the rhythm of things.

This part is not so bad. The light from the hundreds of candles in room cast a soft glow through the milky steam coming of the water. The tub has cooled to a more bearable temperature. The hands that wash my hair are soft.

"Did you check her?" Effie whispers to the maid washing my hair.

"Yes. No sign of lice." The girl answers.

I am practically asleep when they tell me it is time to get from the water. I wish I didn't have to. I feel so safe here now.

I stand from the water and am greeted with towels that wick away all the moister from my skin. Maids come up and rub my skin with oils and creams soothing my tender flesh. I am wrapped in a towel as they begin to comb out my hair. They start with the ends and carefully dry and comb my hair as if it is made of precious gold. "These people may not be so bad." I think to myself. "They are only doing their job."

"Go fetch her bedclothes." Effie tells a blonde girl. In but a moment the servant returns. She is holding a freshly pressed, snow white gown. I can hardly believe these are considered bedclothes. The collar and the sleeves are trimmed with lace and not the thick coarse lace the women weave in my village. This lace is so fine and silky it looks like spiders have made it.

"Alright, here we go." Effie says to me as she gathers up the dress and prepares to pull it over me. I drop my towel and lift my arms as she dresses me like a small child. It feels heavenly. How can any weave be this soft? It is like being swallowed by a cloud.

"Come sit." Effie says as she leads me towards a small bench in the corner of the room. "I'll go get the box." Effie tell the girls behind me. I hear the clip-clap of her shoes against the stone as she leaves the room.

I take a moment to embrace how exquisite I feel. Never in my life have I felt so clean and cared for. My hair is fresh and combed and I am dressed in gentle weaves and lace like a princess. "Perhaps this will not be so bad." I allow myself to think.

"I have it. I have it." Effie says when she enters the room. "I had to get Master Stefan to unlock it from the vault in which it is kept." Effie seems pleased with the gentle murmuring that follows her statement.

She approaches and then I hear one hand strike another.

"No, Octavia." Effie says. "Holding this box is a right that has to be earned."

She sets the box beside me and I look down. It is a dark, small box and I believe the wood is called mahogany.

Effie takes her time undoing the copper latch on the front and when she lifts the lid room is filled with a sweet and tangy smell. Hundreds of dried flowers are inside. The like I have never seen before. Each one is perfectly preserved and the white of the petals has hardly faded.

"What are they?" I ask in wonder.

Effie smiles, "Orange blossoms from the far East. Sent and saved specifically for wedding nights."

Wedding nights? I had almost forgotten about that with all the excitement of the bath. They intend to marry me off tonight.

Octavia gently begins to plait my hair and Effie places one flower into Octavia's hands at a time. With the greatest of care they empty the box and weave my hair full of flowers. Between the oils and the flowers I now smell as sweet as spring and as heady as autumn.

"Fetch the looking glass." Effie says and I can tell she is glowing with pride.

A mirror is placed before me and for the first time in my life I see myself. I have my father's straight nose, and my mother's stubborn chin. Each tiny white blossom is a star in my hair that is black as night. My silver eyes glow like the moon on the dark canvass of my face and my skin is fresh and glowing.

"You will make a beautiful bride." Effie says.

Beautiful. The word is strange to me, but somehow I agree.

"This will not be so bad." I tell myself. I feel so pure and heavenly.

A knock comes from the door.

"Is she ready?" Stefan says.

"Is she ever." Effie says at she looks at me again. No doubt admiring her handiwork. She leads me towards Stefan. This time I am not afraid.

"What new wonders do you have in store for me Stefan?" I think to myself.

He leads me down countless dark halls. I am not afraid. I feel like I am glowing like an angel in all the darkness. On and on we go down countless staircases through innumerable halls.

"I am glad you are here to lead me Stefan." I think to myself. "I would never be able to find the way on my own."

A rat scurries across my path and I let out a small scream. "Silly Katniss," I tell myself, "rats have never frightened you before."

We come to a room at the end of the hall. Stefan opens the door for me then uses a firm hand to push me inside.

I enter and realize that there has been a mistake. A terrible mistake. The room I am now in is not a chapel. The air is stale like it has not been moved in years. The light is dim from the dying fire to say the least. And there is a stink here. One I know well from coming across a rotting carcass in the woods. It is the stink of death. This is not a room it is a tomb.

I make out three figures in the faint light and then a large object. Could it be a bed?

A man approaches me. I know him. His gold chain glows even now in the faint light.

"You are a vision." He tells me as he places a kiss on my cheek, his whiskers burning my freshly cleaned skin. He takes my hand and leads me towards the bed. There is a fourth person in the room tucked beneath the bed. I see his face and want to turn on my heels and run. He is thin, almost skeletal. His skin is gray and pale like milk mixed with water. And when he breathes there is always a rasp followed by a wheeze.

The golden man draws me closer to the bed, then he takes my hand and places it into the hand of the dying boy. His hands feel like ice and I could outline each bone in his palm, for I can feel them so distinctly.

I look to the other two men in the room for support and realize I will find none. One of the men is a stranger to me. He has stringy blonde hair, a long nose, and a pointed chin. He does not even look at me. Instead he stares down at the boy in the bed with a caring gaze, like a shepherd looks at a little lost lamb. I doubt this man even knows I am here.

The last person in the room is Cardinal Snow. He is giving me a diabolical grin and I wonder if my displeasure of this situation is showing on my face.

Snow begins to chant in Latin, but the only thought that can fill my mind is, "What is wrong with this boy?" Over and over the question runs around my mind as I look down at his face. He could be handsome if his cheeks were not so hollow. Or maybe if the only color in his face was not from blackened eyes caused by lack of sleep and poor health.

As I study his eyes he looks up at me. Where his eyes should be white they are bloodshot. His irises are a haunting blue. I look away. I should not have been staring.

Snow continues to chant. His words have no meaning to me. I try to ignore him to let his words turn into nothing more than a soft buzzing in my ears. I tell myself that I am not here. That this marriage is not happening to me.

The buzzing stop and I look to Snow he is no longer speaking. Everyone else's eyes are on the boy, who I think has nodded off.

The man with stringy hair kneels down by the side of the bed and gently strokes the boy's brow until he comes to. The servant's voice is mild when he speaks to him, "Master Peeta, you must say the words, 'I will'."

Peeta looks around the room as if trying to remember where he is. He makes a sound. It only sounds like a dry rasp to me, but everyone else excepts it as his answer.

Cardinal Snow continues speaking in Latin. He is smiling now. A twisted hideous grin. I hate him. I hate the way he is treating the situation like a joke. I do not fully understand what is happening, but I know that it is far from funny. There is nothing I want more than to strike the grin off his face and knock his funny red hat off his head.

Snow pauses again and I wait. Then I realize everyone is looking at me. Those must have been my vows it is my turn to speak.

"I will." I answer as I look down at the poor boy I have agreed to be my husband. I wonder if he wanted this marriage any more than I did.

Snow speaks again it is a short phrase. He looks around the room again his smile is comically large. His eyes are bugging out of his head like an insect. I feel like I will not be able to stop myself from slapping him. The golden man catches on to this game.

"What is the matter Snow?" He asks.

Snow's smile only grows larger. He rocks back on his feet and then practically claps his heels together. "We need the rings." He says as he smiles so wide he is showing his molars. The man's deranged.

"We don't have any rings." The golden man answers with a wave of his hand. "Continue without them."

Snow begins to speak again the words forming quickly in his mouth. Then in that moment I realize I have heard this before. It is the blessing for the Holy Eucharist. He is preparing communion. For the first time in my life I have a religious thought. I wonder if heaven's blessing can even reach this dark pit of suffering.

Snow turns away from us to a side table where the food has been prepared. He lifts the unleavened bread upwards and breaks it. Then he pours the wine into the chalice and lifts it skyward, pausing for a moment so that he can finish his prayer. It is finally ready.

He offers it first to Peeta who is still as a boulder. A person wouldn't even know he was alive with his eyes half-closed except for the steady rattle he makes with every breath.

The servant kneels down beside the bed and wraps one of his sinewy arms behind the boy. Then with the utmost care he lifts Peeta up into a half sitting position. His whispers are as soft as the bubbling of a stream as he coaxes the boy into wakefulness.

When Peeta's eyes are finally open the servant takes the bread from Snow and feeds it to Peeta. He mulls the food over in his mouth as if he lacks the will to chew. His eyelids lull up and down and I wonder why we can't just let him sleep. Snow voluntarily hands over the cup and the servant cradles Peeta's head as he lifts the edge of the glass to his lips. I can tell they have already done this countless times before as the man uses soft words to encourage Peeta to drink more.

They finish and it is my turn. My joints move as if they are on hinges and I feel like I am play acting the motions as I take the bread and then the cup. It is almost as if another Katniss that isn't me is doing it.

Snow speaks again this time his Latin phrase is short and brief. He waits I have no idea what he is expecting. Then he clarifies in English, "You may now kiss the bride."

I freeze. How was I not expecting this? I feel a hand at the small of my back. It is the golden man pushing me towards his son. I don't want this. I don't want to go near him. Then I realize Peeta is alert. His blue eyes pinned upon me. He has seen my panic and I am ashamed.

The hand pushes a little firmer now and for the thousandth time tonight I give up resisting. I lean down and press my lips to his. They are blue and feel like ice. I realize now I am a corpse's bride.

 **So what did you think? Hopefully no one saw any of this coming ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I am afraid this is the last chapter I have until I can find a beta, but here it is just the same I hope you enjoy.**

Chapter 4

Living Pietà

I come up from the kiss and place my palm on his cheek and run my thumb over the jutting contour of his cheekbone. I can feel his throat clench with a gulp as he looks into my eyes. Does either one of us deserve this?

Two hands push me aside like I am interfering with something. As if I am just an accessory to the marriage like the bread or the cup. If that is the case, I wish they would have forgotten me like the rings.

The golden man's whispers fill the room. "There, there my son." He says as he stands over the bed. "You have a wife now, just like your brothers."

Peeta's eyes look like they are made of glass as he looks up to his father. He lifts up a frail hand towards his father's face. The golden man grasps it like it is a wild bird that might soon fly away. He is weeping again. Tears streaming from his eyes until his face is wet enough to soak his golden beard.

"You are married now." He says. "Do you remember when I promised you may have all that your brother's did. I have come through for you. I have kept my promise." He speaks no more as he is overcome by his own sobbing.

Why did he not send us from the room? The conversation seems so personal. Too personal for my ears or anyone else's.

The crying stops and the man places his son's hand back down on the bed like a child who has picked up a toy only to realize that it is not his.

"Well that's enough of that." He says as he flicks away tears from his face. A pained smile passes his face and he looks down at his son, "Besides, we are not done here. I still have my marital blessing to give."

Marital blessing? The words catch in my mind as I try to discern the meaning. Then it occurs to me. They can't be serious. Why are they all watching me. I want to gag. They want me to get into the same bed as him. Under the same sheets. I do not even know him. I do not even know what is wrong with him. Then they want me to– They can't he is in no condition!

The golden man makes a sound, but to my surprise it is not him who acts this time. It is the stringy haired servant who emerges from a dark corner of the room and marches up to me. He takes my upper arm in a vice-like grip and drags me around the bed to the other side. The whole room can see my struggle.

Unceremoniously he turns down the sheets of the bed and tosses me on top of them. I climb in like one of the scared little creatures I kill on a daily basis. Every joint in my body is rigid and my breathing is quick and uncontrollable. I scan the room for any kind of escape. There is none.

I know I look like I want to run as sit bolt upright on the edge of the pillows. Why even bother to conceal it. Everyone must know, but they continue as if a dying boy and a terrified girl in a bed are a normal situation that they deal with every day.

The men move to the foot of the bed. The golden man is closest, the others are behind him. The servant has his eyes locked onto the floor. Snow, however, is staring strait at me. His eyes never blinking. His same giant grin plastered on his face. His teeth are white, but then I see red. Dear God! His gums are bleeding. Every crevasse between his teeth is dripping crimson blood.

The golden man raises his hands, his palms facing us. He then closes his eyes as if he is above it all. How can anyone even give an impression of serenity in this house of many horrors.

His blessing begins, "Now may you both partake in the great commission given by God to our common father and mother, Adam and Eve. May you be fruitful and increase in number and may your progeny live to inherit the earth. I now give you my full blessing on this, your very first, wedded night."

He pauses as if to give his words some kind of added meaning. There is no tricking me with his tranquility. They cannot be serious, even a blind man could tell this boy is on the edge of death.

The golden man's trance is broken and he leaves for the door, drifting across the room like an aimless cloud. I will not partake in this insanity.

Don't leave! I want to scream as they all file out of the room one by one. I hate them. I hate them all, but I don't want to be left alone in the room with him. The servant snaps the door shut and it is finished.

Wails start to escape me. Tears fill my eyes. My chest heaves again and again. I don't want this. I don't want to be here. Why would they do this to me?

I look to Peeta. I wonder what he wants with me. I wonder what he expects of me. To my surprise he is looking at me. Reclined on his side blue eyes trained on me. There is an emotion in his gaze I cannot read. Confusion, maybe? Or is it. . .? No it couldn't be. I realize that it is pity.

For a moment we both observe each other, drinking in each other's figure in. He has blond hair I realize for the first time. It looks soft as bird's down and I can't help but admit that it would not be unpleasant to touch it.

He blinks and the spell is broken. His eyes give one last morose glance and then he rolls over away from me. He clutches his arms to his chest almost in a ball. That's it, he doesn't want me either.

I was crying too hard to stop all at once. I work at calming myself down and eventually bring my cries to nothing more than a faint sniffling. Now what is there to do?

Sleep I suppose, but how? No one bothered to extinguish the fire in the room. The light has left the white sheets glowing orange and red, and caused the shadows to be darker than a moonless night. This is the kind of setting where any child would start to see monsters.

It reminds me of a conversation I had with my father when I was very small. We were returning from Mass and I was complaining about getting up every Sunday morning to listen to a man speak in words that I could not understand.

"I don't understand it." I said to my father. "I don't understand religion. It is too complicated."

My father looked down and smiled at me, "Oh my little girl, it is not complicated at all. All religion is about is the great battle between the light and the darkness, and making sure the light wins."

I believe him now as I sit in this room. There is a battle between light in darkness. I can feel it stirring in these walls. My only question is, can the light win?

My eyes start to feel heavy and I can feel my heart slowing in my chest. Maybe sleeping would not be the worst idea. I have had a long day and if there are monsters here they are not sharing a bed with me. They are lurking outside the walls.

I draw the covers off my feet. I'll sleep on top of them I don't want to get tangled in them if I have to run. I lean back like I am being draw down by a line. My torso stiff as a rail. These down stuffed pillows are too thick, especially for me, I have never even had a pillow before. "You can sleep comfortably enough." I tell myself. I am in a soft bed. Things could be worse.

Close your eyes, Katniss. Let sleep come.

Maybe it would have come if it hadn't started. Almost as soon as my mind had given into the darkness of slumber the noises began. It was soft at first and I scrunched my brow, but refused to open my eyes. "Maybe it will pass." I told myself.

It did not pass. It only intensified. The more I focused the more familiar it sounded. I know that noise. It is almost like…Dear God it can't be!

My eyes shoot open and I turn to him. I know why I recognize it now. I heard it only this morning, but that seems like a lifetime ago. It is the cry of the rabbit. The rabbit I shot, but did not kill. The same coughing, gurgling, crying sound. Only this time it is coming from Peeta. He is weeping I think.

I sit up and clutch the top cover with my hands and lean away from him. "Oh Peeta, do you not know that I don't fix these sorts of problems. I finish them."

I wish Prim was here instead of me. It is a wicked thought I know, but he needs a healer. She would have been better at this. Better than I could ever be. How many times have I seen her sit with my mother and nurse the sick while I flee the room? She would know exactly what to do in this moment.

There is an old woman in my village who I only know by the name Sae. A week after my father died I went to her to try and make a trade. She was talking about me before I even arrived and the words I overheard would stay with me for the rest of my life. "Don't you worry about our Katniss," she said, "she has the heart of a water weasel. They eat their young you know. When the winter gets could enough."

Tears flood my eyes and I clasp a hand over my mouth. I don't want to make any noise. It is true. It is all true. If I were a water weasel I would eat my own young. That is who I am. I am Katniss the girl who shoots the deer and stalks the birds. The girl who isn't afraid to slit a rabbit's throat when she misses a shot. I do not heal. I only kill. It is in my nature.

What terrible thoughts to have of another person. I must be fundamentally wicked, but every time I hear his cries they mingle in my mind with those of the rabbit. If he were a rabbit and I was in the woods my first thought would be 'better put this creature out of its misery'.

My whole frame clenches down as my body heaves with silent sobs. What am I to do? It is in my very nature not to even help him. This is my fault I have never allowed myself to love anything in my life. I have made myself heartless.

"That's not true." A voice in my head whispers, "You have loved Prim."

I wipe my eyes. Yes, Prim I do love her. But didn't I have to? She is my sister. What good can that do me now as this boy cries in the night. He could be dying for all I know. He is so thin I can see his spine and ribs as he coughs. He sounds like he is choking. Just like the rabbit sounded as it choked on its blood.

"What would you do for Prim?" The little voice prompts me again. What would I do for Prim? I already know, I would stroke her hair.

But I couldn't. . . Could I? I look down at my own hand as if surmising if it is capable of such a task.

Timidly I stretch out my arm and then draw it back. What if this is a mistake?

"What could it hurt?" The little voice says.

This time I am bolder and my fingers brush down on the top of his silky curls. They are softer than I expected. I stroke his hair again this time I use my whole hand. For a moment he goes quiet and I think it might be working or maybe he is just surprised.

"What else can I do for him?" I ask myself as I stroke his hair. Then I realize I should be asking myself 'what would I do for Prim'?

I move closer to him and place my head on the same pillow he's using. If he were Prim I would have done this a thousand times. We only had one pillow in our family and I always insisted it was hers. I keep one hand on his head and move the other around his waist.

"Pretend he is Prim." I command myself.

I wrap my arm around him tight and hold him close. He feels as thin as Christ crucified. His waist is caved in and clearly defined. His chest is a wide and bony basket. He is going to die like Christ. I turn my head so that my face is buried in the pillow to stifle my weeping. For if he is Christ than I am the Holy Virgin and we are taking part in a living pietà.

 **Author's Note: This is the chapter that started it all. The thought of a scared little Katniss forced to comfort Peeta, all while she is thinking what an awful person she is. I nearly named the story Pietà, but I thought people would only think I was misspelling Peeta's name.**

 **Please Review they mean so much to me.**


	5. Chapter 5

**I still haven't found a beta and have made peace with the fact that I never will. I am going to try and write this story alone and hopefully the quality doesn't randomly decline, but I will do my best. Thank you so much for all the reviews and private messages, they helped me keep working and convinced me that I can't just give up because too many people are still interested.**

Chapter 5

Minx

I awake to morning light. To my surprise Peeta has rolled over some time in the night. He is already awake and looking at me. For a second I swear I could feel him stroking my hair, but decide it must have been one of the orange blossoms breaking loose and drifting down my hair.

"What is your name." He asks. His voice quivers as if he is afraid.

"Katniss." I whisper to him.

He gives a faint smile at my answer and for once I feel pleasantly pleased with myself.

The door swings open and I jump up to see who it is. For a lingering moment I understand how warm I was next to the boy. It is the servant, who more importantly is carrying a tray full of food. I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday.

He sets the tray down on a table and walks across the room to open the curtains. The room has few windows and all of them are too high to catch much light. Drawing back the curtains only changes the room from black to sooty gray.

"Good morning, Master Peeta." The man says with a smile that reminds me of a man cringing with an ache. "Did you have a good sleep?"

Peeta's head bobs up and down. No one would believe he had slept well in years. He looks like Lazarus after rising from the grave.

"Well that's nice." The servant says politely. "I brought food for you to break your fast," he nods in the direction of the tray on the side table, "but first let's get you to the chamber pot."

My eyes follow the white sheet as the servant tugs them down off Peeta's body. I see his legs and want to scream. No, I want to vomit. No, I want to scream and vomit. He doesn't have two legs. Where his right one should be there is a mangled stump that ends above where his knee should be. The skin on his deformity is a mottled quilt of black and blue, dotted with weeping wounds full of blood and puss. The stench of the infection reaches my nose and my body heaves with a gag. No one seems to notice.

Peeta wraps his arms around the servant's neck and the man places one arm around his waist and another under the knee of Peeta's spindly 'good' leg. The man walks out of the room carrying the Peeta the way a bridegroom carries his new bride.

"Was she kind to you?" I hear the servant ask as he walks down the hall outside the room.

With a morbid fascination I look down at the bed where he lay. The sheets are covered with a slurry of blood and filth. I jump out of the bed like a frightened cat. My eyes jerk down to the dress I wore last night. It too is stained. The marks occurring around me knees and lower leg. I think about how I held him close last night, how could I not notice an entire limb was missing from him?

Panic wells up inside me. I think of the man who once walked through my village. He claimed to have walked the whole of the silk road. According to him the heathens of the far east had a practice of burying the wives of their deceased husbands alive so that they might join them in the afterlife. Is this why they brought me here, for a similar purpose?

Terror fills me up until I am shaking.

No change occurred in me last night. I am still a wild creature. And when a wild creature cannot fight it runs. I am going to flee this place.

"Think Katniss, you need a plan." The voice inside my head tells me. It is right I can't go sprinting away in broad daylight when I could be spotted so easily. I need to leave at night. Think Katniss, make a list, what do you need?

Food. I haven't eaten and I will need my strength if I am going to make it home tonight. My house must be over ten miles away I think, but there is no way for me to be sure.

I look to the tray in the corner of the room, just sitting there tempting me. Three slices of brown bread sit next to a bowl of clear broth. Would they notice if one went missing?

I think of how I can position the remaining two slices to conceal I have taken one. There is no way I can think of that would hide it. I'll solve this problem later. What else do I need?

Light. I will be walking the hallways alone and will need to be able to see to find my way out. By the corner of the bed where Peeta sleeps there is a candelabra. I reach my hand to the back of it and remove the smallest candle. Who would even notice it went missing? I then search the room until I find stone and flint above the fireplace on the mantle. I now have a way to light the candle.

My eyes gaze down at my dress. I have no pockets to conceal my stolen goods. I decide to stash them inside my pillow case. Who would ever think to look there? There is nothing else I can think of except for a pair of shoes, but I doubt I will find a pair in here.

I stuff the smallest piece of bread in my mouth and am swallowing the crumbs when the servant and Peeta return to the room. I blush with guilt feeling like I have been caught red-handed. The man does not even look at me. Instead his eyes focus on the unmade bed.

The man sticks his head out of the door and screams down the hall, "Oi! Alma you forgot the bed!"

Peeta looks even smaller than I remember him being as the man screams. As if the loud noise crumples him in some way.

A gray haired woman appears in the doorway. Her eyebrows are raised up to near her hairline. Her lips are pursed as if she is suffering from the antics of a small child. She glances at the bed and then leans out into the hallway like a sapling swaying in the wind.

"Girls." She calls in a stern voice.

I race to the bed and snatch my pillow. They can't find what I intend to steal. I am holding the pillow to my chest the same way a child clutches a favorite toy when they are scared. Dozens of girls descend on the room and start stripping away the bedding. In a matter of minutes the bed sheets have been changed and the girls are filing out of the room.

The servant takes Peeta to the bed and lays him down. He takes care to plump the pillows and arrange the sheets on top of him.

"That's better." the man comments, "Now let's try and get some food in you. You need to keep your strength– Hey," The man's flinty eyes lock down on me, "have you taken some of the bread?!"

I clutch the pillow tighter and feel my heart beat against my chest like the wings of a caged bird. I can't even look at him. Who else could have taken it, of course it was me.

"Haymitch," I look up. It is Peeta, sometimes I forget he can even speak. "Haymitch, Katniss needs to eat too."

Haymitch's jaw twitches and he looks to Peeta. The boy's face is so gray and mottled I wonder how he even can be concerned with anything that has to do with me. He should be looking after his own health. Never the less his concern for my well being is plain. His blue eyes gaze upon me like he truly is worried they would let me starve.

Haymitch puts on a smile from ear to ear, though it is so unconvincing he might as well have had it painted on his face like a pantomime. "Just so," he says as he looks at Peeta, "I will make sure she gets something to eat _after_ you finish your food."

Haymitch props Peeta up into a sitting position using the bed's pillows and then fetches the tray of food. Spoonful by spoonful Haymitch coaxes the broth into Peeta. Every bite is a challenge and Peeta refuses often, but the old man is equally as stubborn. I decide Haymitch has the personality of a summer storm, all gentle showers and harsh thunder cracks.

When it comes time to eat the bread Peeta refuses and all the wheedling in the world won't change it. Even Haymitch must admit defeat, "Maybe tomorrow." He says in an almost cheery way. As if everyone in the room didn't know that if he isn't eating today he most definitely won't be eating tomorrow.

The man picks up the tray and heads for the door. He places the little plate with bread on the table on his way out. "You can have that now. If you want." He says to me. His shoulders are stooped like a defeated man returning from battle.

I leap from where I am standing and snatch up the bread. I cannot help it. Where I am from food is too scarce to be picky. I must look like a wolf to Peeta as I shove one bite in after another, not even bothering to chew most of them.

When I turn to look at him again his mouth is open and his eyes are wide with concern. "Did they feed you where you are from?" He asks.

"No, I fed myself."

"Are you a farm girl?"

"No, I lived off of the woods." I don't want to tell him any more details. I am still planning on leaving tonight and I feel it is best if he does not get to know me very well.

"How?"

What a question to ask, 'how'. What should I tell him? Should I say I did it by stealing eggs from wild bird's nest. By catching frogs and frying them up. By never turning down any option of food, because to do so would have been suicidal.

"By shooting wild game with my bow." I say.

The corners of his mouth twitch up into a soft smile. He seems almost pleased with the idea. "Where is your bow now?"

I look away from him, "They took it and broke it."

"That's terrible of them." I sense he is trying to say it with conviction, but it comes out in a groggy voice. I can tell he has more questions, but his frail body will only allow so much strain. Maybe I should tell him to lie back and get some rest? Maybe I should say that I honestly wouldn't mind if he spent the whole day sleeping in my presence.

We don't speak any more. Soon his faint snores echo through the room, each exhale haunted by a ragged crackled caused by whatever coats his lungs.

I sit on the edge of the bed and watch the sun trace across the top of the high windows. By my estimation it is one o'clock when he wakes and starts to cough up blood.

He is either to weak or unwilling to cover his mouth and blood and spit dribble down his chin. The white bedding is now flecked with drops of red.

He looks to me, his eyes wide in his agony. "What do you want me to do?" I want to scream at him. How many times have I seen an animal foam and bleed at the mouth after I have shot it? "You're dying." I want to tell him. "You're dying and there is nothing I can do to help you."

His coughing and struggling increases rapidly. He is breathing in and out blood, not air.

The door flies open. It is Haymitch.

"How long has he been like this?" He screams. I swear if he was closer he would have hit me.

Haymitch runs to Peeta's side. He takes a cloth and cleans off Peeta's mouth as he says soothing words to calm him. "There, there. I am here now." He looks to me with eyes like arrows as if to say, 'unlike her.'

"I am here. Shh. Shh. Breath in and out out. In and out." Haymitch starts drawing out his own breaths as if to give Peeta an example.

Slowly the coughing stops and Peeta reclines against the pillows.

"There. There." Haymitch says as he finishes cleaning the last of the blood off Peeta's face. "It was just a little fit. It's over now. It's all over. Lie back and try and get some rest. I'll go fetch you some water." As he stands up to leave the room he gives me one last dirty look.

What does he want from me? Does he know that healing is not in my nature?

"It may not be in Haymitch's nature either." A small voice tells me.

I ignore it. I couldn't do it. I have been running from things like this my whole life. Old, tired, half-staved dogs like me don't learn new tricks. I look at the boy. He is so weak and vulnerable. I am a monster for being so weak, for not being able to help others. I realize it is fine if I leave, I can't do anything for him any way.

Haymitch returns with a tin cup of water. Peeta looks at the cup and tries to push it away. Haymitch gathers up Peeta's hands to keep him from fighting.

"None of that now," He says gently, "you need to drink."

He lifts the cup and Peeta takes a reluctant swallow.

"No, you need to have more than that." Haymitch says with a smile. Is a grin this man's form of weeping?

Peeta takes another sip, not even half a mouthful of water. Haymitch lifts the cup again, but Peeta turns his face away.

"Just a bit more." Haymitch coaxes.

Peeta purses his lips and turns his head further away.

"You can lead a horse to water, Haymitch, but you can't make it drink." I think to myself.

Haymitch sets the cup on the side table, "Maybe we will try again later. When you have your supper."

Haymitch moves faster than I have ever seen him as he walks towards the door. When he is in the hall I hear a something heavy hit the floor accompanied by dozens of other chimes and crashes, like pottery smashing.

"Mr. Abernathy." Alma calls, her voice is as high strung as ever.

"Shove it!" He yells after her.

Peeta dozes in and out of sleep over the next few hours and I do something unusual. Pray. I don't say a rosary for his soul or beg God to miraculously heal him. Instead I ask the divine to keep Peeta from coughing up blood again. Begging him to let it not happen until I am safely gone, because I don't think I can deal with it again.

Haymitch returns like he said with Peeta's supper and manages to get him to eat a few more spoonfuls of broth and drink a little more water. Haymitch does not insist he eat more when Peeta starts to refuse. He simply takes the food away and leaves me the leftover bread on the table like before. Even the faithful servant has given up.

I take the bread, but do not eat it. I will be splitting it with Prim tonight. My feet move quickly to the bed and I wonder how discreet I need to be about stuffing a slice of bread inside my pillow. I decide I do not need to try very hard to conceal my actions. This was the wrong choice for the first time in hours Peeta seems lucid. His eyes tracing the outline of the crumbs that still coat my fingers when I with draw them from the pillow case.

"I feel you should know I'll do my very best to try and keep you fed." He tells me.

I give him a smile. How could I tell him that I will be feeding myself again very soon. My hand reaches into the pillow and I break off a small piece of the slice and eat it in front of him. As if I want to show him his words have given me the confidence to eat.

I reach in again and break off another piece. "Do you want some?" I ask.

"Not right now, maybe in the morning." He tells me and for a moment I wonder if he might be happy.

I give him a weak smile. It will be too late in the morning.

He rolls over away from me like he did last night. I hope he falls asleep quickly, it is dark now and I wish to be gone.

To my chagrin he does not fall asleep, instead he starts coughing and retching again.

No blood. No blood. No blood. I chant within myself as I peak across him. I want to sigh with relief when I see that his lips and mouth are clean. He should exhaust himself soon, I reason with myself.

He doesn't fall asleep soon though, instead he keeps hacking, heaving, and shivering. This will never do. I move beside him and and tug the covers over him. "It's just because you are tired of seeing his spine bulging out every time he coughs." I tell myself.

I brace my back against the headboard and place one arm on his corner of the bed so that I might lean over him. My fingers are cautious as they begin to stroke his hair. Again and again I run them over his head. It reminds me of what my mother use to do when I was very little, before I despised her.

His breathing softens and the taught muscles in his face relax. I dip my head down. "Go to sleep." I whisper in his ear.

Minutes drag on as I run my fingers through his hair and search for any sign of wakefulness. When drool starts to escape the corner of his mouth I know I can be sure he is asleep. One finger at a time I withdraw my hand. I pull back from him and climb out of bed. My eyes stay focused on his face as I blindly search inside my pillow for my supplies. He doesn't even stir when the stone and the flint accidently knock together causing a clatter.

I decide to leave the bread inside the pillow case, at some point I must have sat on it and it has now become flattened. I regret the candle being so small, for now it seems impossible to find as I run my hand up and down the length of the pillow again and again. Eventually, I find it. Now I have everything I need.

Once more I look to Peeta. He looks so peaceful I almost regret leaving him. "He'll most likely be dead in the morning." I try reasoning with myself.

My feet don't even feel like they are touching the ground as I move towards the door. I try and keep my hands from shaking as move the door handle. I step out into the hall and a cold draft catches me. My eyes glance one last time into the sliver opening of the room awash with its orange glow. For a moment I think Peeta's eyes are open. No, his eyes are closed. I am only imagining things. I shut the door.

The darkness in the hall feels like the worst I have ever faced. It feels like it is suffocating me and so powerful it is dissolving my body.

I don't dare light the candle yet. I can still hear phantom like voices somewhere else in the hallway, though where they come from I could only guess. I place my hand against the wall. I plan to follow it until I am far enough away.

I don't make it two steps before my foot comes down on something sharp. It is the pottery that Haymitch had smashed earlier today. Despite my plan I know that I will need light if I am even going to attempt this part of the hallway safely.

I squat down and place the candle upright on the floor. My hands strike the stone and flint together. A shower of orange sparks lights up the darkness, but nothing catches. I try again. This time I have success the candle glows blue then red. I have light.

I hold my candle to the the ground and walk on my tip toes around the thousands of scattered shards. There are so many I am glad I did not try and do it with out any light. My feet would have been ground to a bloody pulp. Besides, I now can remember where I am going. There is a corning up ahead that I need to round in order to find a staircase that I need.

I turn the bend and out of the darkness a face is illuminated.

I am slammed up against a wall before I even have time to react. One hand clutches my throat while a forearm bars me from escape, pinning me to the wall. It is Haymitch.

"Minx! You foul minx!" He hisses at me. "Where do you think you're going?"

I try to answer, but he clamps down on my wind pipe and only a faint rasp escapes me.

"You were leaving. Weren't you?"

I try to shake my head, but he suddenly pushes harder making the bones in my neck grind up against the stone behind me.

"Don't you dare lie to me. I saw you pilfering off supplies with my own eyes. You're scared of him aren't you?"

I manage to give my head a tiny little shake. Stars are appearing in my vision from lack of air.

My answer only serves to enrage him. "I said not to lie to me! Don't deny it. It's as plain as day the way you cringe and shudder when you look at him. You selfish little girl, as if you are anyone to judge." His voice breaks. "Where were you when he was but a boy of two and ten when his father took him hunting? Was it you who searched the woods for hours when he didn't come back? Were you there as he lay in a ditch for three long days. His leg crushed and a straining horse on top of him. Where you there all those long nights when the cold seeped into his lungs and rotted them?"

A stray tear runs down his face, "Was it you who held him down as he screamed and writhed away? Were you the one they told, 'hold him better Haymitch, the cut won't be clean if he keeps carrying on like this'?" He pauses to wipe his nose on the corner of his shirt. "No it wasn't you. You weren't there."

He tightens his grip even further and I except that I am going to die at the hands of this man. To my surprise he releases slightly.

"But yet you bring him some comfort. Some joy." He draws in closer and I can smell his curdled breath. "I asked him this morning if you were kind to him last nigh. He answered yes and that you brought him some comfort." He pauses and spits on the floor in disgust. "And God knows he has not known enough of that. I want you to go back to that room. Do you understand?"

I nod my head. My eyes are bulging with terror.

"Good." He says then his hand cinches up against my throat again, "And if I ever catch you stealing away in the night again I'll cut off your feet, followed by your nose. So that you may know what it is like to go through life crippled, and ugly, and despised by all."

He slams me up against the wall one final time and releases me.

"Get." He whispers and I run.

I haven't sprinted like this since I thought I saw a bear in the woods when I was ten. Broken potter be damned I will my feet to keep going even as I feel the bottom of my soles being scraped away.

I am behind the bedroom door and heaving from want of air before I know it. Is this room a tomb or a sanctuary? Or is it somehow a place where heaven combines with hell.

Everything is just as I left it. Peeta is still sleeping. The fire still crackling.

I climb into bed and curl up.

Slowly I relax and close my eyes. It is alright now. Or as alright as it possibly could be. I take a deep breath trying to sooth my frayed nerves. I should sleep now.

"You left." Peeta suddenly whispers.

"Only for a moment." I answer him.

"Were you trying to leave me?" His voice is broken and panicked.

I move closer to him and place my body next to his. "No, there was just something I had to do."

"Like what?" He says and I can feel his body tense.

I stroke his hair. "Doesn't matter I am here now. And I promise I will never leave you."

He snuggles closer and mutters something about that being nice. I keep stroking his hair. "Yes I will never leave you, because I can't." I want to tell him. "Don't worry. For whatever horrors this house holds we are now in this together whether I am willing or not."

 **Author's Note: So this is the next chapter I have and would like you all to know I am going to try and have some stuff related to the story up on the Hunger Games tumblr hooked to my profile so that I can keep anyone interested in my progress in the loop :)**

 **Oh and in case you are interested my face claims are as follows: A young Olivia Hussey is my Katniss.**

 **Peeta is too ethereal in my mind to ever have someone be him.**

 **And Haymitch is Woody Harrelson.**

 **Please Review they mean so much to me.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Ghosts of the Past

The faint sensation of fingers tracing over my face wakes me. It is Peeta. His arm is wrapped around me and my head is resting on his chest. I can hear the beat of his heart, it is frantic for someone who has just been sleeping, but it is still strong. It is the sound of a young heart.

"Good morning." He whispers to me the faintest of smiles on his face.

"Good morning." I whisper back.

I am just sitting up when Haymitch opens the door. He first peaks in the room his face taught. His muscles relax slightly when he sees Peeta sitting. I was not the only one who doubted that he would live through the night.

"Another fine morning today, Master Peeta." He says as he draws open the shades to let in some meager light. "I thought I heard a bird singing at sunrise it should be a fine day. All right up you go." Again Haymitch gathers Peeta up in his arms and carries him out of the room.

Maids descend as soon as Peeta is out of sight. I jump from the bed and cling onto my pillow. For some reason stashing all those stolen things inside it made it feel like it was, well, _mine_. Besides the crushed piece of bread is still inside and as someone who has faced down the threat of starvation I know how much that is worth.

Alma walks through the room at the meandering pace of a bumblebee clapping her hands once and giving stern orders. "All right. We are finished in here girls." She says. The girls snap to attention and file out of the room. They all seem to be around my age and it feels strange not to go with them. I feel so out of place here.

Haymitch returns with Peeta, who looks half asleep in his arms. Haymitch places him in the bed and takes great care to make sure he is comfortable. Peeta only eats two or three spoonfuls of broth and with each one he makes a grimace. Haymitch tries coaxing him, but it is no good. For once I want to say something. I want to beg him to eat and tell him he can sleep later, but what good would it do. I stay silent and watch on until Haymitch gives up.

Haymitch takes the tray of food out to the door. I watch him the way a crow watches a dog who has just made a kill, wondering when it is safe to pick off the scraps that are left. I am waiting for him to set the plate of bread on the side table. He doesn't. At the last second before he is out the door I catch him giving me a dirty look. I understand now. I am not forgiven for trying to run away last night. This is payback.

I take out the crushed bread and break it in half. I need to be frugal now that I don't know when my next meal will be. With bird sized bites I peck away at the ration. I have learned from years of experience that it is important for whatever your eating to at least _feel_ like a big meal to help keep hunger away.

I then attend to my feet. They are laced with bloody gashes from last night and throbbing. I still have shards of the pottery crushed into the wounds. I spend the next few hours scraping away at my cuts trying to get them clean and watching different shadows form on the stone walls.

The following days melt into a gray blur. There is not much difference between waking and sleeping. Peeta is almost always there in some way or another. He has all but stopped eating and has shed a few pounds that he can ill afford to lose. Every joint and bone of his body is visible and I am waiting for his stomach to swell and for it to be over. I have seen death by starvation before.

His coughing fits have increased too. They happen at least twice a day, and I have learned that it takes no great skill to hold a handkerchief to someone's mouth and catch the blood. You simply make yourself do it, like you make yourself release an arrow to bring down a doe.

It is also not a complicated task to lie next to someone and hold them close. I have done it often enough with Prim. What makes this so different, I reason with myself. Besides it seems to comfort him when I am flush against him. He does not cry out so much. A few nights ago I realized it is so sad that he never calls for anyone by name. Even I sometimes do this. Years ago I fell from a tree and landed hard on my ankle. I couldn't stand and could scarcely breath for a few moment and to my great surprise the first word to pass my lips was my mother's name.

He does not call for his mother or his father. No names ever escape him, only sounds of his agony. Haymitch is the only one to visit and I am the only one to comfort.

One night as I lie next to him with my arms wrapped around his waist and my nose pressed up against the back of his neck so I can tell if he is still breathing, he speaks.

"What is your favorite color?"

At first I think I am hallucinating. I am so sleep deprived anything is possible, and besides we never seem to talk.

"Hmm." I hum in a sleepy voice, hoping that we can both try to rest.

"What's your favorite color?" He repeats again and rolls over so that our noses are nearly touching.

My first thought it that it is a silly question. What do colors really mean anyway, there are so few of them to begin with. However, when I look into his eyes I can see that he is in earnest.

I must take too long with my response and he tries again. "Please tell me. You hold me to your side every night and chase some of my suffering away. Yet all I know about you is your name."

"Green." I whisper to him.

"Like the color of your woods?"

I can't help, but smile. What a silly thought, _my_ woods.

"Yes. What's yours?"

"Orange."

I am grinning despite myself. What a silly color to choose. It hardly exists in nature and people never think of it. When people even discuss color it is always something like the sky is blue, now it's gray. The grass is green, no now it is brown. No one ever even thinks of orange.

"Why?" I ask him.

He looks to me like he is about to reveal a great secret and says, "Because it is the color of sunsets, and I have not seen a sunset in five years."

My heart gives a pang. What must that be like, to not have seen a sunset in _years_. I feel suffocated from being trapped in here for a week. He must feel like he has been buried alive. I look to him what should I say? What is there to say?

"I miss the light." I whisper up into the darkness.

He wraps an arm around me and draws me closer. Why is he comforting me? Shouldn't it be the other way around?

"I know. I am sorry." He tells me.

We stay still for a moment clinging to each other. Two little waifs trapped together with only one another to hold. My heart seems to keep rhythm with his and his breath slows. Maybe he is sleeping again? I hope so, he desperately needs it.

A feel a small spasm run through his chest. And a corresponding shiver runs up my arm. Oh no, not again. He lets out a cough and blood splatters my cheek. I instinctively reach for a clean towel across Peeta on his bed stand. These fits are happening so often Haymitch is keeping a stack of clean linens at the ready.

I hold the cloth to his mouth and do my best to support his head with my other hand.

"Shush, shh." I tell him, "Try to relax. This will pass. This will pass."

He gives me a look that I cannot read and the rate of his coughing increases. My hand is growing sticky from the blood soaking through the cloth and I am beginning to panic. What would Haymitch do?

"Peeta," I say. He starts to cough harder and I think he can hear the panic in my voice. "Peeta, calm down. Breathe with me." I suck in a slow exaggerated breath and let it out. I repeat this again and again, until slowly he starts to do it with me.

Ever so slowly the coughing subsides and turns into ragged breathing. He is limp from exhaustion and both our brows are covered in sweat. I reach up and wipe my forehead. I immediately regret this. I had forgotten that my hand was covered in blood and now I am sure it is smeared on my forehead.

Peeta is now asleep in my arms. I close my eyes and lean back a moment and sleep catches me off guard.

Peeta begins to stir and I wake. I stroke his hair to try and encourage him to return to sleeping, instead he speaks, "What else do you miss?"

"Hmm?" I ask him. My eyes are shut and I am still half dozing.

"You said you missed the light, what else do you miss?"

My first thought is Prim, but I cannot tell him this.

"Bathing." I say.

It sounds sarcastic, but it is also true. I have not had any sort of way to wash myself since I arrived here and I know I must stink. My once white dress is covered with stains of Peeta's blood and the fabric is stiff from my sweat.

He stares to the ceiling in thought for a moment and I wonder what he will say to me. I hope for a moment I have not insulted him. I have never taken the circumstances of my being here as something he is responsible for and I hope he does not feel like I am accusing him of anything.

"Oh," He says and then he looks to me like I am a little bird trapped in the rafters of a church. The kind that all the little children see and want to set free. He closes his eyes and turns towards me, resting his head in the corner of my shoulder. I reach over and tug the blankets closer to his thin frame.

I am going to miss this. A breath hitches in my throat and my hand moves up to catch a stray tear dripping down my face.

What silliness. I don't even know the boy. He said so himself just minutes ago. A sob catches in me chest and I do my best to stifle it. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it." I command myself. Another cry catches and I am able to hold it back for a moment. My eyes are watering uncontrollably. I look over to his sleeping face and the cry escapes. I don't want him to die.

I shouldn't think this way. There is nothing I can do to save him. I have seen so much death before and his time is coming. It's as inevitable as the sun rising. But if there was some other world, some other place where somehow I could heal him I would.

My chapped cheeks are burning from the tears running down my face and my sobs have turned into a soft whimpering. I look to him. "Don't leave me." I want to tell him. I run my hand through his silky curls, sometimes gently grabbing fistfuls of his hair. I want to hold on to him, to somehow tether him to this mortal world.

I grip onto him tighter and let my tears fall freely. How do you take something broken and make it right? You can't. There is no mercy in this world.

My sorrow fades to darkness as I cry myself to sleep.

The light coming into the room is a surprise to me. It is an even greater surprise when Haymitch's hands remove my willowy arms from around Peeta. I have been clutching the boy in a death grip for most of the night.

Haymitch looks to me and I immediately look away feeling guilty, but for the first time I think he was looking at me like he didn't quite despise me. He hefts Peeta up like he weighs no more than a small child. Peeta's eyes flutter open, but I don't think he is even aware what is going on. I lift my hand up to my mouth and bite down on my knuckle as I try to keep myself from screaming. He has the glassy eyes of someone with just a few days left to live.

Before, Haymitch walks out the door I hear Peeta say something. I can't make out the words they all sound garbled, but at least he is speaking. That means I have just a little more time with him.

The maids come in and the maids go out. As predictably as a summer thunderstorm's clouds mean rain. The linen is changed and they have started to supply clean cloths for the side table on a regular basis. As always I stand by the side clutching my pillow. I do not know why. There is nothing in it. At this point it feels like force of habit. Just part of the routine that now is my simple existence.

Peeta is brought back into the room. In Haymitch's arms he looks like he is sleeping, but it is different. I think he has fainted from the simple strain of being taken out of bed. He does not even seem to have the awareness of a dreamer. His face twitches and I nearly lunge like a wild thing to be by his side. I am worried he will start having shaking fits like the children that are sometimes brought to my mother. And when their parents ask what can be done for them she only shakes her head and tells them to speak to the coffin maker.

Peeta doesn't move again and a realize it was only a quick sort of spasm, but my concern does not go unnoticed and I can feel Haymitch's eyes focused on me as he pulls the door closed. The hours drag and blur together. At some point a maid is sent in with a plate of bread for me. Haymitch does not come with any food for Peeta and I take this as a grave turn of events. Peeta has not stirred all day and I think his days on earth are reaching their final number.

Sometime after sundown Haymitch comes to the room. He doesn't leave the doorway and looks to me instead of Peeta. He beckons me closer with his hand and glances over at Peeta to make sure he is still sleeping.

My heart flutters with confusion. I am a creature of habit and despise any change of routine. Reluctantly I go over to him. I wonder if he is going to dismiss me. It seems he is aware that Peeta will not be with us much longer.

He signals me to follow him out into the hallway. He closes the door like a sleeping dragon is within and will be awakened at the slightest sound.

I wait for him to speak, but he doesn't. Instead he grabs a torch from along the wall and starts making his way down the hallway. I look around in surprise unsure of what to do next. Haymitch keeps walking as if he has forgotten he brought me out there. And I pick up my feet and run to catch him.

I match Haymitch's strides and walk underneath his hand that carries the torch. Occasionally a bit of ash or rubble will break free and I have to hop and skip around it. I never take my eyes off him, hoping that he can see my eyes silently begging him for some answers. Any kind of explanation would do.

If he notices my curiosity he does not seem concerned with it. With only my thoughts to keep me company my worst fears start to come to mind. My skin prickles as terrible thoughts bubble up inside me. Could they be taking me away so that they could kill me? Do they want to get rid of me quietly? With this being the Cardinal's home I assume there must be other holy men about who might object to my murder. Maybe they want to get rid of Peeta too. These thoughts make me feel like a frantic bird caught in a net whose struggle only causes the cords to tighten.

They could kill him. It has been done before. Sometimes the severely ill are brought to my mother and she tells them truthfully there is nothing she can do but give them white willow bark for the pain. Certain kinds of care takers wear the same face when they hear this. Their lips become taught, their eyes go distant, and their heads start giving lazy nods. They shed no tears. The dead patients body is always brought out of the home within a day or two. Once when I was eight my mother pointed to one of the corpses and said, "See the way the way the hand is curled near their chest. They were smothered in their sleep and tried to fight."

My lip starts to tremble as I think how easy it would be to do that to Peeta without me there to protect him. I doubt he even would have the strength to fight them off at all. There would be no struggle from him and they would say his lungs failed him.

"Haymitch," I say before I even know the question I am going to ask him. I can think of no other words and he looks to me expectantly.

"Haymitch," I try again and as he raises an eyebrow in annoyance, "where are you taking me?"

"Master Peeta thought you needed a bath." He answers in a crisp way and I can tell he is not happy that I have left the room. I wonder if he has the same fears I do for when no one is watching over Peeta.

I wonder if I should even trust what Haymitch tells me. However, when I think of it out of all the terrible things he has done to me he has never told me anything other than the truth. I hone in my senses as I try to learn where he is leading me. To my great relief I start smelling steam, lavender, and myrrh. He has not lied to me.

We round a corner and I see the familiar wooden door. Steam is seeping out of every crevasse of the wood and mingling with the torch light causing it to look like the golden clouds of heaven.

Haymitch opens the door and Effie emerges from the mist. She is alone; there will be no caste of thousands to help me bathe this time.

"My beautiful bride." She whispers to me with a warm smile on her face.

I smile back at her kindness. I know she is lying. There is nothing beautiful about me any more. My lovely white gown is stained with sweat and blood. My once plaited hair is matted together in knots and I have been shedding the orange blossoms for days. I am aware of how awful I must smell even if I have grown use to my own stench.

I undress in silence and she offers me a hand as I climb into the wooden tub. I sink down into the water. It is as hot as my first bath, but I can bear it more easily now that I know what to expect.

Effie offers me a sponge and gives me a weak smile. "I hope you won't mind washing yourself while I tend to your hair. That way we won't have to refill the tub."

The idea of washing myself pleases me and I gratefully except the sponge. She passes me the dish full of gray soap and I take a handful and begin working on my arm. I am ashamed of the dirt and filth I am lifting of myself with every swipe of the sponge I take. I would have never allowed myself to become this grimy of my own free will and I wonder who I can ask to see if a wash basin could be placed in the room. But I doubt any one would trouble themselves to listen to my requests at all.

I feel Effie's nibble hands in my hair as she starts to remove the remaining orange blossom's from my hair one by one. To my surprise she takes care to place each one into a handkerchief and then carefully wraps them up and ties the bundle with a white silk ribbon. She must see the curiosity on my face and tells me, "So you may save and cherish them always as a memory of your wedding night."

I start washing my other arm as Effie unplaits and brushes out my hair. She then takes her hand and gently places it under my chin and tilts my head back. She empties a pitcher of water over my head and begins to wash my hair. As she works she prattles on about gossip that concerns people I don't know, and events that will happen in the home that have nothing to do with me.

Normally this kind of talk would annoy me, but is nice not to have the burden of conversation placed on me when I have so little to say. She must know everything about everyone who lives inside these walls and if I would ever want any information she would be the one to ask.

A question rises up inside me and I ask, "Effie, why does Peeta's father never visit him?"

Effie's hands stop moving, "Oh well, the king is very busy." She starts and then her nervous fingers start working through my hair again, "And he does not live here. Master Peeta was given into the charge of Cardinal Snow and his father only visits on. . .rare. . . and special occasions. Like your wedding."

"Oh." I answer like a halfwit. What is there left to say?

Effie finishes bathing me in relative silence. When I am done I look down with shame at the water that has turned black on account of my own filth. I rise from the water and Effie begins to pat me down with a towel.

"Effie," I begin nervously, "is there anyway you could ask someone to place a wash basin within my room?"

Effie looks up from my knee she is drying, "Of course dear." She says with a smile. She then draws the towel up and places it around my shoulder. "Here hold this for a moment while I go get your clothes.

I clasp the towel together with my hand as she leaves the room. She returns quickly and is carrying another white gown. This one is a simple shift with no lace or other frills. Effie gathers the fabric up and I raise my arms so she can pull it over my head and body.

As the fabric drifts across my face I am overwhelmed by the pleasant smell of it. It smells familiar and comforting, like something I have breathed in all my life until this moment, but now cannot place.

Effie must notice this and answers intuitively, "I had it stored in in pine needles and then treated with wood smoke."

I understand now. She wanted it to stay fresh longer. She must know that I may not be getting a bath again any time soon.

"Thank you, Effie." I tell her

A morose smile crosses her face and she reaches up to cup my cheek, "My dear sweet Katniss, I know these times may be. . .dark. But please know if there is ever any. . . trouble you have a friend in me."

There is a double meaning in all her words but I do not think I understand them yet. I nod in acknowledgment.

A knock is heard at the door and I turn to find Haymitch waiting for me with a torch. I say goodbye to Effie and follow him out into the dark halls. On and on we go until I see something I have not seen before.

Another source of light moving down an adjacent hall. I turn to see who this light bearer is and when we lock eyes I freeze. I know these silver eyes. They belong Gale Hawthorn, a boy who is nothing more than a distant ghost of my past.

 **Author's Note: Please review, life's thrown a lot of incredibly stressful curve balls at me and my muse is dead for this story at the moment, but your comments would go a long way to waking it up.**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

(Part 1)

A Single Ray of Light

Peeta gently dozes beside me and I watch the faint morning light creep though the shades. My thoughts are preoccupied with one person. A boy who answers to the name of Gale Hawthorn.

We were children together living in the same village. And for the first years of our lives the relationship between us amounted to no more than I knew of him and he knew of me. Then the day came when a weeping Gale half carried his father into our burned out husk of a home. He must have been no more than fourteen summers old and had the face and build of a man. The most boyish thing about him was that he was weeping like a child.

Somehow as his father was plowing a field the blade of the plow had broken loose and caught his leg. A bloody gash was opened around his mid-calve. My twelve-year-old mind recalls thinking about how he was draining more blood than a pail of water full of holes. My mother and sister did their best to patch him up, working all night to knit the jagged rip back together again, but to no avail.

For once I stayed in the home as they worked. Normally I would flee on sight of another wounded person, but this time I did not leave. Perhaps it was because we bared such a striking resemblance to each other. Identical heads of sooty hair, twin smoke gray eyes. I saw myself in him. I saw my father in him. As if the world had taken one man from me and given me another one. The acorn that sprouted after the wild fire.

As his father neared the end Gail began to scream. He screamed at us to work harder, to move faster, to do something, any thing to keep him alive. The last words his father told him were to hush and that Gale owed us a great debt for how hard we worked. The image of Gale sobbing as he clutched his dead father's hand to his face is burned into my mind. I never saw him shed a single tear again after that day.

Gale must have taken his father's last words to heart and soon after his father's body was buried he sought me out. I was in the woods that day trying to teach myself to hunt. I had been given the most rudimentary lessons on shooting wild game by my father, but I was always more of a companion than an apprentice.

I can remember nearly jumping out of my skin when I felt Gale's hand tap my shoulder that day. Even then he had a hunter's stride and I did not hear a sound until he was right behind me.

"Do you know how to bring down game with that or are you only playacting?" He asked me in all seriousness as hew eyed my bow and arrows.

"I can bring down game." I answered curtly. Not even realizing until much later how dangerous these words would have been if I had said them to someone who wanted to turn me in for poaching. "Let me show you." I said as I lifted up my bow and notched an arrow.

His hands flew up and yanked my bow down breaking my stance. "Not here," he whispered, "we're too close to the tree line."

I looked back and realized he was right. I could still see some of the homes in my village. I had never thought of this before and it was almost like distance was skewed by the trees. I could have sworn I was deep enough in the woods to be fully concealed.

We walked deeper into the woods. Deeper than I had ever dared to go without my father. When we came to a stop I knew it was finally time to prove my worth and a prepared my bow again.

"Throw a rock to stir up game." I whispered to Gale.

He complied and when a dozen birds burst from scrubby forest floor I brought one down with a perfect shot to the heart. I know now looking back that it was mostly dumb luck that caused my arrow to fly true. I was not as skilled an archer then, but either way I had proved that I could indeed hunt and had justified my worth.

From that day on not many words were spoken to each other though we saw each other almost daily. A comfortable understanding passed between us. We knew that neither one of us wanted to be here, but that we needed each other because we were all we had left.

There were so many mouths to feed between us. I had my mother and Prim, and he had his mother and two younger brothers. As I recall we were quite a pair in the beginning, both of us had a general idea of what we were doing, but the craft of hunting was still illusive to us. I missed about every other shot, and his snares failed about the same amount of times. Then a year or two past and almost by magic we were good at what we did. I can even remember some two weeks in one particular June when we had to be some of the best fed people in our village. Then things changed.

A harsh winter came and the wild game left the woods for fairer lands. There was no food anywhere. I still shudder at the thought of Prim's hollow cheeks during that time. It was as if I could almost feel that the heavenly kingdom was not far off for my family. And for however bad things were for me I knew they had to be almost twice as bad at the Hawthorne's who had so many other to look after.

After the third day of coming out of the woods empty handed I knew something was wrong. His silence was no longer the comfortable kind, some how I could feel the wild thing within him becoming agitated and wanting to run.

"You need to leave here if you want your family to live. There's no food here any more."

I remember snorting at his ridiculousness, "Leave? We can't leave. We are pledged to land just like our fathers before us. They would surely stop us before we even made it five miles."

"Very soon I will go even farther than five miles. You need to leave if you want to feed your family."

"Give it another day Gale. We will find food soon, there is no need to run just yet. It is not worth the risk."

"I am not taking any risk. Katniss, I have pledged myself in service to the Lord of the land. My family must eat. That is why you must leave here. There is no food left in these woods and I will not be able to help you any longer."

My insides felt as cold as the grave as he spoke these words and for the briefest of moments I hoped that this was some kind of bazar jest. That he would break the impression he had left on me for the last few years and burst out laughing, and tell me how foolish I was for believing him. But his face was too solemn and I knew in that moment every word he had spoken was true.

"So be it." I said and began to walk aimlessly away. My mind could not seem to stitch two thoughts together. He called something after me, but to this day I have no recollection of what he said.

I never asked where he was going or what he intended to do. What did it matter to me if he was no longer willing to help me and my family?

Months later I realized the true reason for his departure. Hazel gave birth to another child. An illegitimate child, a child she must have conceived in an effort to keep her family fed. I could not persecute Gale so much in my mind any longer. I do not think he could bear what he had done to his family by not being able to provide for them.

A small rustling noise distracts me from my thoughts and I roll over to find Peeta's gaze trained on me. For a moment I wonder if he knew my mind; if he knew I was thinking about my past life before I was brought here.

He gives me a weak smile, and said, "Someday I wish to know all the deep thoughts that fill up your mind."

My mouth involuntarily twitches up at his comment, "Then you will have to wait a long time, for my mind is very shallow and bleak."

He lets out a sound that could be a weak sort of laugh and said, "No Katniss, I have the suspicion that your mind is many things, but it is not that."

 **Author's Note: Sorry for the unforgivably long delay and for this only being half a chapter. I have not abandoned this work as some have feared, though it is not hard to understand why they have come to this conclusion. I am currently in the midst of one of the darkest times of my life and am spending most of my time working different odd jobs. I wanted to post now even if it is only half a chapter because the writing has been so slow lately. Some days I could only write three or four words. I will try my best to post the other half of the chapter soon, but please forgive me if I can't.**


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